


beer

by EmSheshan



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Drabble, Drinking, Gen, Hamburg Era, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Underage Drinking, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:00:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28072860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmSheshan/pseuds/EmSheshan
Summary: Paul McCartney did not fuss over George, did not baby him, and definitely was not a Mother Hen.(but we all know he is)
Relationships: George Harrison & Paul McCartney, George Harrison/Paul McCartney
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	beer

_ The night is young,  _ Paul told himself.  _ There's still plenty of time to lark about. _

That's what was racing through Paul's head as he watched George down another beer in the corner of his eye. The younger lad didn't seem to be enjoying his drink but never protested once when John ordered another round for the four of them. (Usually, it was five but Stu was spending his evening with some German lass.) It was obvious George was lightweight, pathetically so, but no one noticed except for Paul. With every drink that went into him in that seedy Hamburg pub, George drew more still, more quiet, trying to keep a straight face. 

"Ass, it is. Give us shit for playing then make us blow all our cash on beer. Should serve us free," John grumbled, taking a large swig. "Bullshite."

"Then stop drinking," Pete snorted, making John slap him in the arm for suggesting such a notion. Pete chortled and the two fought for a bit, rough enough to hurt but playful enough so they wouldn't bruise.

George sat still and scratched his balls, oblivious to the fight. He shuffled, tugged at his collar, and burped. Paul had half a mind to tell him to head up, to go to bed before he threw up on someone's shoes, but George was stubborn to a fault. He'd never willingly leave.

"I gotta go," he suddenly announced, as if he could read Paul's mind and prove him wrong.

"Then go," John grunted, stretching out into George's to bed. "Night, Geo."

"Just for a piss," George huffed, scrambling out of his seat. "I'm not fuckin'... going t'bed." He got up, huffed,  _ fuckin' Lennon,  _ under his breath, and swayed dangerously as he made his way to the bathrooms. 

"He's gonna pass out in there," Pete pointed. "He's so wasted, man."

"Well, I ain't dragging him back to the room," John huffed, and simultaneously, he and Pete shot a look at Paul. It was a silent gesture but Paul knew exactly what they were thinking.

_ He's your little baby brother, right? You deal with him. _

Paul bit down on whatever remark he had. He wanted to watch over George, but every time he did so, a nagging voice told him that it made him look soft. He cared, but… but George was tough. He was the one who drank too much—

_ Even though he knew John coerced him into it. _

—so whatever will happen would be George's responsibility. Yes, that was perfectly reasonable. 

With that, Paul took another sip of his drink, winked, and said: "Well he said he was a big boy, doesn't need me to watch 'im piss."

The answer placated John, who downed the rest of his beer and called over a waitress for another one. They soon fell into a rhythm of small-talk, of chatting about music and home and the thrill of Hamburg and that cute lady in the back, and George was forgotten. He hadn't returned in five minutes, Paul suggested he went up to sleep, and that was that. 

Five became ten, and ten became twenty. Pete had gotten up to chat up the woman in the back and John followed, beckoning Paul to come with. He almost did, his chair skid against the floor of the filthy club, but—

"I gotta take a shit," Paul said, leaving for the restroom in the back. Damn his consciousness, that little voice that told him George wouldn't lie about going to the room. Surely enough, after pushing past the greasy patrons and grubby doors, the distinctive sound of reaching filled his ears.

"Oh," was all he said.

George hadn't bothered to lock the stall he was in, letting everyone see his back as he huddled over the porcelain bowl, bringing up his meager dinner. He sagged in his position from where he was kneeling, and Paul noted the small amount of vomit that got caught in his hair.

"Geo, it's me, Paul."

" 'Course, not like anyone else would show up," George shot, weakly chuckling as his fingers clutched the toilet tighter. "Feels like I ate a brick."

" 'S your fault, drinking that much," Paul said. "You know John just wanted to get you hammered so he could laugh at you."

"That John's so funny, ain't he? He's always laughing at someone. Last night, he was makin' fun of you," he hummed. "Ain't that a lark?" George flopped to the floor and stared at Paul, a dopey smile on his face. One of his canines poked out from his upper lip.

"George, you're drunk."

"Least I'm not an arse," George said. "You gonna do something? Or just let me puke and cry for the night?"

Paul sighed.

"John's not an arse," Paul began, "and I'm not taking you up to our room if you're gonna be like this." George began to giggle, a high whine bubbling past his lips, and Paul turned to leave. The action caused George to quickly sober up.

_ No, don't,  _ he whimpered.  _ Fuck, Paul, I'm sorry. _

George resembled a kicked puppy, drowning in his oversized clothes, an expression of pure sadness on his face.

"Don't tell 'em, please. I don't want John here. Paul," he whined, "Paul, don't leave me." He scrambled up, only able to take three steps before collapsing at Paul's feet. His voice had begun to hike up from its slow drawl. As his movements grew more frantic, clawing at Paul's leg, his speech slurred, turning in a mass of syllables.

"Hey, hey, Geo, it's alright," Paul tried to reassure.

"I'm a fuckin' kid and he hates me, he wants me out—"

"George, that's not true!"

"I don't know what I'm gonna do when he kicks me out—"

"George!" Paul cried. "John would never kick you out— he's told me time and time again, you're the best player in the band!"

George sniffled.

"It's true, y'know? He doesn't want you to know, so you gotta keep it a secret, but you can outplay John, easy." Then, in a quieter voice: "You can outplay me, too."

"I don't… bullshite," George mumbled.

"It's true," Paul said. "But you gotta keep it a secret, alright? Promise me." George slowly nodded, and Paul noticed his drooping eyelids. Without a word, he scooped up George's frail body, remarking at how light it was.

"I miss home," George said. "I miss sleeping in a bed."

"I'll let you have my bed tonight, alright?" Paul hummed. John and Pete were nowhere in sight, which made Paul relieved. Like George had said, John was always laughing at someone. Probably would have called Paul,  _ Mother-hen,  _ if he saw him carrying George, bridal-style.

“I don’... know why is so hard,” George slurred. “Bein’ ‘ere. Playin’.  _ John. _ ” He hiccuped and buried his face deeper into Paul’s stiff leather jacket. “I don’ want ‘im to hate me, you neither… but is jus’ too hard. S’like everythin’ I do is wrong.”

“Don’t worry about it, Geo. You’re cool, yeah?”

George shifted.

“Alright,” he hummed. “Ta, Paul.”

“You’re welcome,” Paul let himself whisper to George, arriving at their minuscule closet of a room. “Now come on.” 

Paul tried to deposit George onto one of the bunks, but the teen simply clutched onto Paul tighter, turning what was a simple action into a struggle. After five minutes of wrestling, Paul was able to throw one of the starchy green blankets over George, and after a short moment of thought, threw a second one on top. George had already begun to hold one of the pillows, curling into a fetal position.

“G’night, Paul,” George hummed. 

“Night, Geo.”

With that, Paul left the room, but not before sliding a small bin next to George’s already unconscious form.

_ Just in case,  _ he hummed to himself.


End file.
